Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1887-08-22
mtsfellaneous.
UNDER ORDERS.

of a vicarage in the east end of London.
sat. one afternoon in late autumn, mother
and son. That most pathetic kind of
poverty-the kind which is linked in in
dissouble union with gentility-had
stamped this nondescript apart for its
own. The wall paper had seen better
DAYS, and had lighted on exceptionally
dingv ones; the ceiling was blackened
with gas the carpet had lost all trace OF
its original pattern; the drugget was
coplously darued in places, where a
threadbare condition recorded the track of
footsteps; the horsehair seats of the
mahogany chairs were deplorably worn at
the edges, and the position Of rail-
way rug in the very centre of for
bidding locking sofa suggested the idea
that rents or stains probably lurked be-
meath its friendly shade.
Little folks had left marks OF their
presence scattered here and there in the
room. On the sideboard was pile of
copy books, dog's-eared primers, and
story books, fanked by an atlas; from
behind sofa bolster peeped a scantilv
attired doll with solemn. staring blue
eyes, hectic cheeks, and battered head,
whereupon bald patches alternated with
fiaxen ringlets.
The house stood in a plot of unproduc-
tive landry courtesy called garden
which apparently furnished a recreation
ground for number of hens, who at the
present moment derived strange enjoy.
ment from occupying holes which they
had scratched for themselves in the earth
beneath some decrepit shrubs. Beyond
~ I'd utr ba Str
of Whitechapel.
Ceaseless street cries mingled with the
rattle of wheels, and banging of omnibus
doors, and the juggling of tram-car bells.
Third edition-Echo, shouted in shrill
treble a sharp-looking youngster with a
bundle of papers under his arm six tor
sixpence--cau li-fiowers, roared the deep
bass OF a costermonger dustman, a
knife grinder, shoeblach, a eats meat
man, fish stall keeper. and other mem
bers Of the itinerant fraternity blended
their voices in maddening chorus.
Within the Vicarage, mother and son,
needless OF the distracting sounds, were
engaged in earnest conversation. The
mother. a middle-aged lady. with a care
worn, refined face, diligently darned a
small sock which stoad greatly in need of
her services; the son, young man OF
about three and twenty, with a slim, 1.-the
figure and a boyish, handsome face,
mechanically watched her flying needle
as he listened or replied.
Mrs. Murray was wife of the vicar of
St. Stephen. Whitechapel, an elderly,
scholarly, unsuccessful clergyman, whose
means were wholly inadequate to meet all
the claims made on him by numerous
family. The son-David by name-had
early developed Intellectual tastes; his
expenses at school and college had been
betrayed by a wealthy eccentric kinsman
of his mother The youth turned out shy,
studious and dreamy, the possessor of an
enthusiasm for poetry. but of little prac-
tical ability, and no instructive knowledge
OF the world. When, with the attainment
of the "Newdigate" and good degree,
his college career came to an end, and the
time arrived when aid in the adoption of a
calling would have been highly acceptable
the relations assistance was capriciously
withdrawn.
David Murray returned home; and
doubt relgned under the paternal roof with
regard to his prospects in lite. His father
shook his head obviously when the young
man bashfully proessed himself wooer
of the muse and expressed a desire to
follow the vocation of poet. Poetry
doesn't pay, even when the writer is a
genius, and-and You are not a genius.
you know, David" said the clergyman,
with sorrowtul candor.
Mrs. Murray belonged to a wealthy
family who had taken umbrage at her
marriage with poor parson. Her brothers
and sisters had consigned her to oblivion,
and her name was omitted from her
fathers will, But few days before my
story opens sister, the widow OF a
fabulously rich East Indian merchant,
named Wilton, held out the golden sceptre
of reconciliation, and Mrs. Murray touched
it with trembling rapture.
1--WE are sisters" graciously wrote Mrs.
Wilton from Florence, where she was
spending some months. land it is time to
forget our differences" From this ex-
ordium the widow passed to the narration
of a family quarrel, which had indirect
relation to the Murray interests. Il am
greatly disappointed. she wrote, sin my
nephew Tom-poor James's son-who,
till lately. managed my estates in Devon
ana somerset. he has gwen ulS grave
cause for displeaSure, and | have shut my
doors upon him. This being the case, |
am anxious to make the acquaintance of
YOUR eldest lad, who has received no
benefits from me and fromwhom, therefore.
according to the ways OF the world,
anger invested the writer's pen with uu-
wonted scarcasm-"l expect the more
gratitude. You have not yet. suppose,
seen your way to putting your son into
any profession. Well, Toms empty place
as steward may in time and after due pre-
paration suit hm-who knows? am re-
solved to take the lad. / even build
castles in the air for him, and have in my
head scheme for his marriage with my
husbands ward, Joyce Baltour, who lives
with me and is my heiress. Send your son
to Florence, to pass the winter here. and
to return with us in the spring to Devon
shire Let him spend what time and see
what places he likes en- route. enclose
check tor his travelling expenses"
Consciousness of the pque (aroused by
Nephew Tom') which obviously lay a
the bottom of this letter did not disturb
the pleasure with which Mrs. hurry re
ceived her sisters oyertures. She tolC
herself. in her simple piety that Providence
had opened way tor the provision OF he
son; she called on David to rejoice witt
her.
But David refused to rejoice. On th'
/ 4. ; - IL